


Surprise

by orphan_account



Series: Little Randoms [4]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: M/M, Promnis - Freeform, crack is crack is crack and not to be taken seriously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-06
Updated: 2018-05-06
Packaged: 2019-05-03 03:53:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14560287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Some light-hearted fun and sweet gestures doesn't hurt anyone.





	Surprise

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HisGlasses](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HisGlasses/gifts).



> Disclaimer: you know the drill already, I don't own FFXV or any of its content. Square Enix does.
> 
> A/N: This is for hisglasses, inspired by [this fabulous art of Prompto](https://his-pair-of-spare-glasses.tumblr.com/post/173319560411/and-the-sketching-goes-on-have-our-freckled). I had the urge to write _something_ , anything, after seeing that, and so here we are!

Ignis doesn't quite look like Ignis when he's asleep, Prompto thinks.  He's less... _severe_  and more... relaxed.  Peaceful?

_Of course he looks peaceful, you idiot.  He's sleeping._

Maybe it's the tousled flop of hair over eyes that dart under their lids whenever he hums or mumbles garbled nonsense.  Maybe it's the mash of loosely curled fingers under his cheek, pulling at his lip and Prompto has to wonder... does Ignis drool in his sleep?

A question to investigate some other time, he decides, knowing that Ignis is a light sleeper unless knocked clean out by flu medication.  He pads barefoot around the bedroom, eyes on his prizes, fancies himself something of a burglar with how he freezes at each stutter in the gusting breaths, almost breaking from his plan and diving for his camera instead when Ignis says his _name_.

He's dreaming of him.  Of Prompto Argentum.  Of the nobody with unexpected friends in high places.

But he hasn't discussed taking photos of Ignis _with_ Ignis yet, doesn't want to infringe on his privacy and so returns to the task at hand.  Can he even really call himself a burglar when he's only _borrowing_ some things?

No matter.  There's work to be done and recipes to find and a kitchen to _not_ blow up.

* * *

"Prompto, have you seen my -" he cuts off his own question, one foot still held aloft to transfer his weight to the bottom stair.  He blinks once, twice, reaches up to rub at his eyes as he shifts to brace a hand on the banister and lean over it to better peer into the kitchenette.

It is, indeed, Prompto at the stove, spinning around with a squawk and brandishing a fork covered in _something_ that ends up flying in every direction with the frantic flapping of his arm.

"No!  You shouldn't be up yet!  Breakfast isn't ready!"

"You're making breakfast for me?"

"No!  _Yes_ \- I mean - damn it, Iggy, it was supposed to be a surprise!"

“It _is_  a surprise,” Ignis returns, abandoning his hovering perch on the staircase in favour of entering the kitchenette proper, _suspicious_  of the familiar shade of purple thrown over Prompto’s thin frame and folded up at the elbows, open collar leaving a tantalising patch of his throat exposed, and a cheeky glimpse of the collarbone he’d spent many a minute laving his tongue over the night before.  “I don’t know what you’re making yet, do I?  Is that my shirt?”

“Maaaybe.  But you’re not allowed to find out yet.  Go sit.  This should be ready in a few minutes.”  Of course he is known for his mischief at times, and so he attempts to scoot closer with a sway of the hips and slide of the foot as he would to calmly remove himself from the trajectory of an MT’s axe swing.  The fork is brandished at him again, actually _jabbed_ at him, and he retreats with a chuckle, Prompto’s glower heavy on the back of his head as he pauses for the cutlery, not that he _said_  anything about not setting the table.

“Can you just _not_  for once, Ignis?  You don’t have to do everything or help out all the time, my god.”

His surrender is one of laughter, one that turns Prompto’s frown upside down, and Ignis finds himself quite unable to look away as Prompto tends to the breakfast Ignis suspects might be omelettes.  It’s a gesture made all the more touching with the evidence that Prompto is going to so much effort over something so small and often taken for granted.

He watches as his attention darts back and forth between the pan he’s tending and something on the counter top (his phone, most likely) and finds a smile working its way onto his face.  The first genuine one since he learned of Insomnia’s fate stamped so cruelly on the front pages of a newspaper.

* * *

“You really don’t know how to cook?”  He can’t believe it.  Surely not.  He could remember Noct’s many, _many_ , mishaps and ruined pots in the kitchen while battling with the basics, in comparison the feta and tomato omelette he’d just eaten was as far from disaster as it could possibly get.  Light and fluffy, perfectly cooked through, with a side salad arranged in a smiley face and seasoning that was _just right_.

No past experience?  None?  Surely Prompto was pulling his leg.

“Nope.  Never really learned, y’know?  Busy with school and stuff.”  There’s something about his _tone_  that says he’s not being entirely truthful, the dart of his eyes down to fingers that take to playing - _fussing_ \- with the bracelets adorning his wrist.  Maybe that should hurt, that for all Prompto is willing to bare his body and its imperfections (not that he sees them as such), he’s not willing to bare his soul.

But if there’s one thing Ignis knows better than anything, it’s the need for privacy and a measure of secrecy.  Not anything severe, nothing serious, but just enough to preserve one’s sanity, have _one_ safe place left, within one’s own mind.

_Others can’t hurt you with what they don’t know._ Most of the time.

So he lets it slide without comment, without pressure, respecting the silent request for the topic to be left alone, lets mischief curl his lips as he dips his hand in the suds and splashes Prompto while he’s still distracted, laughs when he sputters and comes back at him with the same attack.

“What the hell?  Where’s the honour in ambushing someone, Iggy?”

“Oh I’d hardly say it’s an ambush with you looking directly at me, Prompto.”

“I was not!”

“But you are now,” he replies and _pounces_ , backing Prompto up against the counter and setting both hands on its surface to cage him in.  Prompto freezes like an Anak caught in headlights, eyes going wide and mouth flapping, though he makes not a sound.

“Would you like to learn?”

“W-what?”

“To cook.  Would you like to learn?”

“Oh, no no, it’s fine.  I can use Mognet for reference.  I mean, the omelettes turned out okay and I’d hate to be a bother and -”

“Prompto.”  Just the utterance of his name cuts off the babble ( _nerves_ , he reckons) and Prompto smiles when he does, cautious, almost shy.  “I wouldn’t offer if it was going to be any trouble, and if we send those two off for some extra wood for the fire, we’d have the time all to ourselves... should you blow up the camp.”

“Hey!  I’m not _that_  bad!”  But there’s laughter in his voice despite the protest and that’s all that matters, whether the takes Ignis up on his offer or not.

He tucks his fingers into the rumpled collar of _his own shirt_ , gives it a tug as he dips down to slant his mouth over Prompto’s, kisses him slow and sweet and lingering until there’s a light flush to freckled cheeks and he, himself, has almost forgotten how to breathe.

“You look good in my things.  You should steal them more often.”

“Oh really?  You would _let_  me?”

“I’m sure I could be _convinced_  to ignore their absence from my body.  Though the lack of glasses would become bothersome.”  Prompto’s smile turns devious, hands darting to his waistband and tugging material loose to spread warmth at the small of his back, kneading at the tense muscles.  Unexpected, but appreciated, almost luring Ignis into leaning against him and burying his face against his neck.

_Almost_ , if not for the sudden slam of the front door and the disgusted noise soon to follow.

“Really, guys?  Do you really have to defile the plates we use to eat?”  Fingers trail along his sides as he steps back to the sink, back to the dishes Noctis whines about and completely missing Prompto sliding his glasses into place and peering at Noctis over them.  Missing the wink thrown Noct’s way and the flash of tongue caught between lips and teeth.

“So the spares in the cupboard are fair game?  Good to know.”

“Oh my god, no!”

“Hey, Iggy?  I might just take you up on that offer after all, _spice things up a little_.”

“I’m disowning the pair of you.”

“You hear that?”

“I do, Prompto.”  Does he even want to _know_  where this is going?

“ _Freedom_.  Let’s get jiggy, Iggy.”

And somehow, underneath Prompto’s outright _cackling_  and Noctis’s somewhat distressed protests, he can still hear the frantic dash and smash of his sanity out the nearest window.


End file.
